She walked over to the clothes rail, usually so neat and ordered – in ascending colours of the spectrum – hanging from old plumbing piping and secured into the ceiling. The weather report had promised heat and blue skies and as her fingers tripped over the coat hangers she came to a dress that Victoria had made for her nearly two years ago, and was as yet unworn. It was beautiful. Bohemian in style, the neckline dropping to her sternum but not overtly revealing or indecent, the long filmy material would cover her arms from the glare of the sun. Something unfurled within her: the desire to step outside the long-sleeved tops and trousers that had become her chef’s uniform. The want to … to look pretty. And a wave of excitement crashed over her as she reached for it, telling herself that she wasn’t wearing this for Henry. Not. At. All.

She opened the door to the bathroom, where the floor-length mirror had been hung, and looked at herself.

Was that really her?

The dress hung beautifully from her shoulders, clinging to her torso and flaring out from her hips. Her cheeks seemed slightly flushed, her eyes bright with excitement. No. It was satisfaction, she chided herself, that she’d managed to get the wedding back on track. It had nothing to do with the idea of seeing Henry again. Nothing whatsoever! It was only when she reached to pick up the towel from where it had dropped on the floor that she noticed the thigh-high split in the material, making her baulk. She checked the clock on the wall. It was too late to change now.

She grabbed her keys off the small side table where the picture of her, Victoria, Malie and Zoe sat. It had been taken barely an hour before the accident. She knew that most people would have thought it strange – would have seen it as a reminder of the awfulness that followed – but she didn’t. None of them had. It was a bright point in their lives, one that had drawn them through the darkness, showing them that they were stronger together. Always.

Downstairs, she retrieved the basket she had prepared last night from the walk-in fridge at the back of the kitchen, and strapped it to the pannier of her bike and with a silent apology to Victoria, tucked the beautiful silky skirts of the dress out of the way of the wheels, hoping not to crease the material, and pushed off towards the Hawkesbury estate.

Lily couldn’t help but smile as she pulled out onto the cobbled main street that bisected the small seaside town. She loved this time of year. The summer’s sun crested over the hill of Hawkesbury estate, looking out and down on the port town below. The fishermen were not yet back from their morning haul, the tourists were not yet in full flow. It was … peaceful. It was home.